


the blood is on your tongue as well as your hands

by artificer



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Excessive use of italics, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Power Dynamics, Slapping, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3629880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artificer/pseuds/artificer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, Fletcher has always been more symbol than person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the blood is on your tongue as well as your hands

**Author's Note:**

> I am trash; I am such trash.
> 
> Anyway, the title is from a song that is not trash, "Antichrist" by The 1975. 
> 
> I really did intend to write smut. It just... didn't happen. I am sorry for that, in addition to the generally sloppy construction of this plotless disaster.

His whole world has been reduced to music and blood and that _look_ in Fletcher’s eyes. There’s an entire universe in the space between each note, and nothing— _nothing_ —has ever been quite as important as this performance. The beat consumes him, and he’s keeping tempo with every fiber of his body. His lungs, his heart, the drip of sweat across his forehead—he’s a living metronome. He has always been so hopelessly caught up in the future—in the person he’s going to be, the performances he’s going to give—always rushing, rushing, _rushing_ , and now he understands what it means to live in the moment. Now he understands what it means to be _great_.

It’s everything, all-consuming, and he can hardly imagine an _after_.

\---

After, Andrew thinks he could drown in the riptide of applause that roars over him. He’s overwhelmed by the thought that finally, finally, _finally_ he’s given a performance worthy of the artist he’s going to be. The artist he’s _meant_ to be.

He stands there, basking in the bright lights, until a hand lands at the small of his back and guides him off the stage. It’s Fletcher; of course it’s Fletcher; it’s _always_ Fletcher. He’s not sure where Fletcher’s leading him, but he’s not sure he cares. They wind through the halls, past other musicians, but none of that matters, either. He’s giddy, punch-drunk on his own success—not to mention the warmth of Fletcher’s palm through the thin cotton of his dress shirt.

It’s not until they reach the back door that Andrew comes to his senses. Sort of. At least enough to ask, “Where are we going?”

“We’re leaving.” Fletcher cocks an eyebrow at him. “You have a problem with that, cupcake?”

He thinks, absently, that his dad is probably waiting for him in the lobby, probably horrified as to the fragility of Andrew’s mental state. If he told Fletcher that his dad is waiting for him, Fletcher would probably let him go. But his dad would coo and worry and tell him _never again_ , and that isn’t what he wants. Tonight, of all nights, he wants to talk to someone who understands. “No,” he says, straightening up and opening the door. “No problem at all.”

Fletcher’s car is parked in a garage nearby, and he gets in without bothering to ask after their destination. He doesn’t think he’ll get a better answer this time.

He expects music—jazz, really, maybe even “Whiplash” or “Caravan”—but the car is silent. Andrew pulls out his cell phone and shoots a brief, somewhat cryptic text to his dad about going out with the band to celebrate.

“Texting your little boyfriend?” Fletcher snarks.

Andrew rolls his eyes. Admitting that he’s texting his dad would probably result in worse insults than the run-of-the-mill homophobia.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” he asks instead. Fletcher’s turn signal ticks audibly in response. “Are you going to say anything about what happened?”

“We’re almost there,” Fletcher says, finally, answering the first question to avoid the second.

\---

A few minutes later, Fletcher parallel parks alongside a row of identical brownstones. Andrew gets out of the car and follows Fletcher to the front door. It’s a quiet Brooklyn neighborhood—he’s not sure which, he wasn’t paying that much attention—quaint, he thinks. Not at all where he would picture Fletcher living—not that he has ever pictured Fletcher living anywhere, really.

“This is your house,” Andrew says slowly, having trouble believing it. He follows Fletcher inside, eyes drifting over the hardwood floors, bay windows, and taupe three-piece sofa set. “This is where you live.”

“That’s a fucking grade-A deduction, Neiman. Why did you go to Shaffer when NASA was knocking at your door?”

The thing is, Fletcher has always been more symbol than person. First, he represented Andrew’s his big break. Then, he became the source of Andrew’s motivation. Later, he was the thing that went bump in the night. Now Andrew is confronted with the reality that Fletcher is real, flesh and blood, something more than a Freudian construct of his own creation. When he realizes that Fletcher is still staring at him, expectant, he shakes his head. “It’s nice.”

“Nice,” Fletcher repeats.

“Taupe is a nice color,” Andrew agrees. “Suits you.”

“Faggot,” Fletcher mutters.

“That’s weak, even for you.”

Fletcher grunts, disappearing into his kitchen.

Andrew stuffs his hands in his pockets as the awkwardness of the situation finally hits him. He’s in the home of his former teacher—a man he got fired. And it is, undoubtedly, a home. There are bookshelves everywhere, lined with CDs, records, and even few actual books. There’s a cluster of framed photos on the far wall, and Andrew avoids it studiously. He pulls his hands back out of his pockets, sits down on the smaller side of the L-sofa, and laces them neatly across his lap. The blood has scabbed over, at least.

“You want a drink?” Fletcher calls. Either he has forgotten that Andrew is underage, or he doesn’t care. Probably the latter.

“Not really.”

Fletcher brings him a glass of what is either very cheap whiskey or very discolored rubbing alcohol. Andrew stares at it, then at Fletcher, who sits down on the other branch of the sofa, but still shockingly close.

It’s only now, as he sits on Fletcher’s couch with Fletcher’s glassware in his hand, that Andrew thinks to ask himself what the hell he’s doing here. He’s finally coming down from the performance high, the adrenaline bleeding out of his system, and all he’s left feeling is tired. He doesn’t know why Fletcher invited him here, and he doesn’t have the energy to guess. So he raises the glass to his lips and chugs the whiskey. He doesn’t gag or sputter, and when he’s done, he slams the glass on the coffee table.

Arms crossed over his chest, Fletcher looks thoroughly unimpressed, like he thinks he knows exactly what Andrew’s doing. Which, well. He probably does. After a moment, Fletcher just shakes his head. “You don’t even realize what you’ve gotten yourself into, Neiman.”

Andrew searches blindly for a comeback. He isn’t sure what Fletcher is even talking about, let alone what he has supposedly gotten himself into. But he’s not about to admit either of those things, so he settles for, “Oh, so _now_ you want to talk.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, dipshit. That little stunt you pulled is going to have consequences.”

“Stunt?” Andrew blinks. He’s torn between incredulity and angry. He’s not sure what’s worse—that Fletcher refuses to recognize his part in all this or that he refuses to recognize that Andrew’s performance was so much more than a _stunt_. “That’s what you call it? A stunt? I was _legendary_ up there, in spite of what you—”

“God, you’re such a drama queen. Shut up already, Neiman,” Fletcher rolls his eyes. Dramatically. “It doesn’t matter what I call it because that isn’t what we’re talking about.”

“Then what the hell are we talking about?”

“We’re talking about your future and the consequences of your actions.”

“Okay.” Andrew breathes, slowly, deliberately. He holds his hands—bloody, battered—up in surrender. “I’m listening.”

“Good.” Fletcher finally takes a gulp of his own whiskey, frowning all the while. Finally, he says, “You’re going to get calls.”

His heartbeat quickens, syncopated, as he realizes that Fletcher is talking about _the_ _good kind_ of consequences. He’s known, of course, since the performance ended that he’ll be hearing from agents and conductors soon, but it’s another thing to hear Fletcher admit it. “You think so?” he asks, coy and smug all at once and in spite of his better judgment. He’s lost any sense of self-preservation.

Fletcher ignores him. “When you get the calls, princess, what are you going to do?”

“Take them. Record, perform, sign a contract, whatever—”

He’s not expecting it. He feels the burst of bright white pain in his cheek before he realizes what has happened—that Fletcher has slapped him. Again. God fucking damn it, he thinks; he thought they were past this. Hasn’t he proven himself? He shakes his head, angry and unafraid. “What the hell was that for?”

 “Are you going to take the calls?”

“I—”

Another slap, twice as hard.

“You think I did this to let some other conductor take the glory? You think I’m going to watch you be someone else’s goddamn Charlie Parker?”

 _Oh_. So that’s what this is about.

“You tried to humiliate me tonight. You tried to ruin my career,” Andrew reminds him.

“You tried to ruin mine first, you ungrateful little shit,” Fletcher snaps. “You _owe_ me.”

“Actually, I think that makes us even. I screwed you over; you screwed me over. I’m under no obligation to you.”

“In your delusional even-steven fantasy, do we braid each other’s hair, too?” Fletcher yells. He leans in close, close enough that Andrew can see the vein throbbing at his temple. “You’re forgetting that you’re only here because of me. If you’re great, it’s because I made you what you are.”

“How many cymbals have you thrown at your students’ heads? None of them have what I have. It’s my talent and my drive that got me here. You said it yourself; I’m your _only_ Charlie Parker.”

“Yes, _my_ Charlie Parker. _Mine_. Not someone else’s.”

Andrew feels hot, feels blood thrumming through his veins to the beat of a familiar song. Fletcher believes in him; Fletcher wants him. Suddenly he’s not at all sure what they’re arguing over because maybe, just maybe, they’re both right. It seems stupid to argue when Fletcher has that _look_ in his eyes and is saying that Andrew is _his_.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion and the adrenaline crash. Maybe it’s the whiskey going to his head. Or maybe he’s sick of all this posturing when he finally realizes what he _wants_.

Andrew crashes forward and tips his lips against Fletcher’s. He kisses him, sloppily, their faces intersecting at a decidedly uncomfortable angle.

He’s expecting it when Fletcher pushes him back; what he’s not expecting is for Fletcher’s hands to catch his hair and push his head _down_ , until his face is precariously close to Fletcher’s crotch. Andrew keeps his head there, but he looks up, meeting Fletcher’s hooded gaze.

“Well?” Fletcher snarls, his fingers tightening in Andrew’s hair. “Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish.”

\---

Contrary to Fletcher’s favorite slurs, Andrew has never sucked cock before, but, well, he’s nothing if not determined.

And after—

Fletcher fucks him, after.

\---

Through no conscious decision of his own, Andrew spends the night. When he wakes the next morning, sore and exhausted with the headache to rule all headaches, he’s alone in Fletcher’s bed. He pushes back the sheets—also taupe—and finds a pair of clean boxers and a t-shirt in the dresser before heading to the kitchen.

He finds Fletcher there with a pot of coffee and a bottle of Tylenol. He accepts both gratefully and sits at the table while Fletcher cracks eggs into a cracked ceramic mixing bowl.

“Are we going to talk about what happened?” Andrew finds himself asking because, of course, he’s always the one asking.

“Nothing to talk about.”

“I don’t mean the sex.”

“Good,” Fletcher grunts, “because I’m not about to sit around and talk about _feelings_ like a fucking faggot.”

“That’s an awful lot of internalized homophobia for a man who fucked me in the ass,” Andrew observes calmly. He’s not afraid anymore. Fletcher can taunt him and slap him and humiliate him in front of an audience, but it’s nothing Andrew can’t handle. Nothing he can’t bounce back from. From this vantage point, Fletcher’s all bark and no bite.

Fletcher stares at him, but for once, he doesn’t have a comeback.

“What I meant,” Andrew continues, “is we never finished our conversation last night. About what I’m going to do next.”

Fletcher sets down his whisk. “I’m listening.”

“Did you mean it?” Andrew asks, softer than he intends. “Do you want me to play for you? In the JVC band? Is that what you were trying to ask me without actually asking me anything?”

Emotion flickers across Fletcher’s face, but it’s gone before Andrew can put a name to it.

Fletcher says, “It’s a job offer, not a proposal.”

“It sounded more like a demand than an offer.”

Fletcher winces. “It’s an offer, if you want it.” There’s vulnerability there, maybe even a little desperation. The thing is, Fletcher _needs_ him more than he needs Fletcher. It’s Fletcher’s career that’s dangling by a thread, not Andrew’s, not after last night.

“Is it going to be like it was before?” he asks. He remembers what he felt like—compulsively obsessed and damnably fragile—and he knows what his father and his therapist would say. He knows what _he_ should say.

Fletcher just shrugs. “I am who I am,” he says, finally, “and I’m not about to let you quit again. I’ll push you, if that’s what it takes.”

Andrew looks at him, standing in this sun-dappled kitchen in sweats and a t-shirt. He’s flesh and blood and totally mortal. Whatever nightmares Andrew had, before the accident or after, Fletcher can’t haunt him anymore. What Fletcher held over him was his fear, but Andrew’s not afraid anymore. He doesn’t doubt himself. Now he knows what it feels like to be great, and he knows he’ll get there again—with or without Fletcher. It’s just a question of what he _wants_.

“So?” Fletcher asks. “Are you in or out?”

And Andrew—

Andrew _smiles_.


End file.
